Ōran Kōkō Hosuto Kurabu
by HiME ViSUAL
Summary: Fujioka Haruhi, a fifteen-year-old male freshman, is in for an adventure. Between repaying his debt of 8 million yen to the Host Club and struggling with life, Haruhi must find a way to balance it all while hiding his secret: he's not a girl. Male!Haruhi
1. Oneひと・つHitotsu

**One/**ひと・つ**/Hitotsu**

Haruhi sighed as he gently pulled the grandiose wooden door to a close. He had been wandering the majestic halls of Ōran for the past hour and a half on a seemingly never-ending quest in hopes to find a quiet place to revise his English notes. Unfortunately for Haruhi, every classroom he had passed was otherwise occupied, filled to the brim with students immersed in idle chit-chat.

Many computer labs were made unavailable and the various study halls were full of society's crème de la crème, whose conversation topics ranged from the hottest fashion to the latest controversies concerning their fellow elites. Everything they gossiped over was of meaningless value and completely irrelevant, none directly pertinent towards his current or otherwise future state of existence. Even the various libraries across the large campus were filled to the brim of miscellaneous small talk, spoken in volumes unbefitting of their current setting.

Haruhi's shoulders began to droop as he released another sigh. "That's the fourth library I checked today," he frowned, "Each and every one of them were filled with enough ambient noise to make studying impossible." The teen turned his gaze towards the floor-to-ceiling high windows which lined the hallways of Ōran and stared out of the impeccably clean glass panes.

Doves took flight, ascending towards the heavens above as they trilled their sweet songs. The sky was free of wandering clouds and the air smelled fresh of spring flowers. The heat of the afternoon sun seeped into the corridor, warming the halls with its gentle rays as light reflected off the ostentatious chandeliers and ornate brass fixtures which lined the passageway.

Haruhi's vision shifted and focused on his reflection on the glass pane before him. Long brown hair had been swept into a messy bun, gently curling around a heart-shaped face. Chocolate-brown eyes glittered underneath prescription lenses, held together by cheap, plastic frames. The thin, but capable, body of a still-growing teenage boy remained hidden beneath the wrinkled baggy layers of cotton and denim, mimicking his counterpart's every minute shift.

Fujioka Haruhi, fifteen-year-old freshman of Ōran Kōkō, was the perfect blend of his late mother, Fujioka Kotoko, and his living father, Fujioka Ryōji. Possessing the best features of both parents, Haruhi would've been an instant hit with both men and women alike had he taken the time to maintain his physical appearance. A walking heart throb, Ryōji would say, before beginning to dissect the boy's wardrobe piece by piece.

"We should go shopping for clothes," his father would coo as he toyed with his son's auburn tresses, "and visit my stylist. I think you have split ends-"

Haruhi was quick to tune out his father out, allowing the man to plan a trip that'll likely never happen.

_Dear Mother in Heaven,_ Haruhi thought as he began his journey down the winding hallway_, it's been ten years since you passed away. I wish I could say that it's been quiet since you left us but I'd be lying if I did so. _

_Oyaji is as crazy as he usually is, setting fire to the kitchen whenever he's in the mood to cook or parading his saggy ass around the apartment in the latest outfits he snagged at the free-for-all bargain sale bitch-fest at the department store. I, on the other hand, have studied hard for my exams and passed with flying colours and since then have earned grades I know you'd be proud of, Okā-san. We both miss you dearly and think of you every day._

_Misuzu-san, dad's old friend who used to work with him at the bar, checks in from time to time whenever he, or rather she, is in the neighbourhood. Since she lives in Karuizawa, running the pension she's always dreamed of owning, we don't see Misuzu-san very often. Every other week, though, she sends her love on the form of fruit jams, which I use to make the sweets you loved to eat when you were still alive. _

_Oyaji mostly eats them and then later complains about the weight he's been gaining because of it . . . he certainly doesn't hold back._

_Ōran Kōkō is a very strange school,_ Haruhi continued as he ascended the flight of stairs to the third floor,_ far different from Higashi Chūgakkō. If it weren't for the benefits this school had to offer, I'm sure I would've gone to Higashi Kōtōgakkō with Arai and Kazumi-chan. Everyone I've met so far seems as if they've only come to school to play and be waited upon, which is annoying to say the least._

Haruhi paused halfway up the staircase._ Well,_ he chuckled as he resumed his journey up the stairs and down the halls_, almost everyone. There's this strange student, a senior I think, who lurks in the shadows around the campus wearing a heavy cloak and is always accompanied by a cat-shaped hand puppet. I'm not sure what he's here for, to be honest . . ._

Upon reaching the double doors leading to the Third Music Room, Haruhi paused. The teen leaned forward and gently pressed his ear against the door panel and listened for any sound. Silence.

"Occupied or unoccupied, I can't tell." Haruhi frowned. "If occupied, they're either very quiet or the door has the acoustical capability to block sound." Haruhi grasped the door handle as he leaned back and opened the door, "I might as well check to see if it's actually in use at all. If not, I doubt it would be missed considering the number of music rooms the campus actually has to spare . . . eh?"

Gathered at the very centre of the music room was a group of five boys ranging from a variety of age, height, and physical traits. Two of the six Haruhi recognized as his twin classmates, Hitachīn Hikaru and Kaoru. With their identically spiky red-hair, mischievously glinting topaz eyes, and devilish grins, Haruhi clearly remembered their favourite pastime of shooting spit balls at the back of Kanagawa-sensei's bald head during World History.

From the beginning and end of fourth period, the twins managed to create a smiley face on the back of Kanagawa-sensei's head without him knowing.

To their right was an attentive-looking dark-haired teen with thin silver framed glasses perched across the bridge of his nose. The prescription lenses of his glasses shined beneath the florescent lighting, hiding his narrowed brown eyes beneath the glare of the light. Perched in the nook of his elbow was a black writing pad filled with who knows what, likely to be written with the expensive ballpoint pen he carried at hand.

Standing slightly behind him was another who towered the rest of the group. Black hair, cut short near the nape of his neck, grew in length towards his crown and bangs. His eyes, darker than obsidian, glanced at Haruhi for a brief moment before settling towards his smaller companion, whose physical traits were a distinct contrast from his own.

His opposite was the tiniest in their group with straw blond hair framed a childlike face and accentuated large chocolate-brown eyes. In his arms the boy carried a soft pink stuffed bunny, ears flopping to the side. Had it not been for the Upper Secondary uniform he wore, Haruhi was hard pressed to believe that the boy was a student of the Primary Division, especially considering his height, or lack thereof.

The last member, sitting in an ornate armchair at the very centre of the group, was also a blond, whose golden locks were akin to sunshine. His eyes, an idiosyncratic violet, shined like amethyst beneath the florescent light, framed among long lashes and almond-shaped eyes. Lips of rosy peach slowly drew into a placid smile as his eyes fell towards the perplexed brunet who stood in the doorway.

"Welcome to the Host Club." The peculiar group welcomed, arms spread wide as rose petals danced in the suspicious indoor breeze, floating past the five and out of the open doorway.

Haruhi, at a loss for words, merely stared at the strangely assembled group of students for only a moment longer before slamming the door shut. "I give up." Haruhi sighed, turning on his heel. The brunet began to retrace his steps, intending to leave the campus through the front gate. "I'll just go to Shibuya Toshokan and study there before going home," he decided as he began his descent down the staircase, "I might as well drop by the supermarket to see if they're having a sale today. Hopefully I can pick up something for tomorrow's dinner, too . . ."


	2. Twoふた・つFutatsu

**Two/**ふた・つ**/Futatsu**

The following morning was silent and still, a common commodity within the homely residential district of Higashi, Shibuya. Spring flowers imbued the fresh air with their saccharine perfume, aroma filling the entire neighbourhood with the scent of ume, momo, and sakura. Songbirds twittered about the treetops, singing their morning songs as the dawning sun continued its slow ascent beyond the horizon.

As opposed to the serenity transpiring beyond his window, Haruhi decided his emotional state agitated.

Shortly past midnight, Haruhi settled into his futon and drifted off to sleep. He dreamed of scantily-clad women, running across the white sandy beaches of an unknown tropical paradise invading his dreams. Platinum blondes to hair as dark as the night sky with stunning bodies to boot, Haruhi found himself a very, very happy teen within his dreamscape.

He was chasing them in a literal game of hard-to-get. If catch us we'll give you a very special prize, they had said. It was easier said than done considering the voluptuous ladies were quick on their feet, even in sand.

Through perseverance and sheer will alone, Haruhi had caught them at long last and was quick to demand his prize. Just as the dream beauties were about to give him his reward, Haruhi was rudely awakened, torn from the wonderful dreamscape by a piercing shrill.

Haruhi groggily stared at his ceiling and turned to glare at the origins of his ire.

It was his alarm clock, a bruised and battered piece of machinery that had served him faithfully for many, many years. The clock sat right from his pillow, well within reaching distance of either arm. Luminescent red numbers blinked mechanically at the drowsy brunet, blurred numbers of 05:00 flickering back at the tired youth.

". . . what the hell?" Haruhi frowned as he reached for his grandfather's glasses. Tugging them on, Haruhi's frown deepened as he reread his clock, which ticked forward by another minute.

Haruhi clearly recalled setting the damned thing to go off an hour from now, giving him more than enough to prepare for the upcoming day. His train to Nagatachō-eki from Shibuya-eki left the station at exactly 06:53. With fifty minutes to prepare, Haruhi had enough time for a brief shower, prepare breakfast for both he and his father, and gather his school supplies before heading to the station.

The brunet knew for certain he didn't change the time to 05:00 which left Haruhi one last possible suspect to consider. . .

"Oyaji!" Haruhi screamed as he smashed his fist on the off button.

"Did you call me, Haru-chan?" his father asked as he peered into his son's bedroom. Ryōji blinked at the state of his dishevelled son, eyebrow raised as he refrained from lifting the corners of his scarlet-red lips.

Haruhi scowled at his father, taking in the man's long auburn hair, which would've surpassed Haruhi's own length had he taken the time to properly straighten it, framing a heart ship face. His father was dressed in a black ladies' power suit, cut strategically to emphasize and enhance his nonexistent curves. This, coupled with black pantyhose wrapping his long and shapely legs, ending in a place Haruhi would rather not think about, Haruhi's father didn't resemble a father at all.

Fujioka Ryōji was a professional okama, paid for his skills in the art of cross-dressing.

Currently, his father was in his female persona and thus preferred to be called as "Ranka" by his peers, or occasionally "Mama," by his precious son. Haruhi, who refused to refer his cross-dressing father as his mother, continued to call the man by his genuine paternal designation, enjoying the very moment when the men his father charmed realized the beautiful woman before them wasn't quite a woman at all, in a sense.

Said men returned to wherever it is they came from questioning their sexual preferences, which had been torn and rendered askew.

"Did you mess with my alarm clock?" Haruhi asked as he waved the plastic contraption.

Ranka fidgeted. ". . . maybe?"

Haruhi glared. "Haven't I told you before not to reprogram it?" he reminded his father, "I set it at a specific time for a reason, you know."

"B-But Haru-chan," Ranka pouted, secretly enjoying the minute tick his son was developing, "I was worried you wouldn't have enough time to get ready for school because you were up late last night, working hard like the good girl-"

"-I'm a boy-"

"-you are so I set it tiny bit early."

"A full hour earlier does not constitute as "a tiny bit," you realize," he hissed. "I have a little under an hour to prepare for school."

"An hour goes by so fast, Haru-chan." His father replied, "You have to wash and dry your hair, clean your face, put on makeup-"

"-I don't wear makeup-"

"-decide which panties you want to wear today-"

Haruhi promptly gagged.

"-and pick out a cute dress to impress the boys with-"

"-enough!" Haruhi exclaimed as he threw his poor alarm clock at the door. "Get out of my room, you gender confused lunatic!"

Ranka slid the fusuma closed and listened as the battered alarm clock bounced against the door. He snickered as he slid open the door and blew a raspberry at his aggravated son. "The early bird gets the worm as they say, my little Haru-chan!" Ranka cooed as he slipped into the sanctuary of the kitchen.

"Early bird my ass." Haruhi grumbled, and then contemplated the effort it would take to retrieve his abused alarm clock. The less than pleased teen decided against it and snuggled back into his futon. "Stupid okama robbing me of what little extra sleep I could've gotten." Haruhi growled. "Stupid alarm clocks and stupid . . ."

Haruhi awoke more than an hour later, as groggy and tired as he was an hour earlier. With one hand Haruhi reached blindly for his glasses, which had been discarded as soon as his head hit the pillow, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Yawning, Haruhi stretched his limbs as far as he could, reminiscent of a cat, and sighed with pleasure.

The brunet sat up, slid on the plastic frames and glanced at his bedroom for his wayward alarm clock. "If I remember correctly," he began, "I tossed that old piece of junk towards the door when dad-"

The teen froze, staring at the battered clock lying innocently by the fusuma. Despite having been turned over its side, Haruhi could clearly read the florescent red numbers flashing innocently back. 0648, it read before mockingly tick forward by a minute more.

Haruhi instantly calculated that it took two minutes to reach the train station if he ran for his life. This left him only left him less than two minutes to get dressed, brush his teeth, eat breakfast, grab his bento, gather his belongings, and rush out of the door. Conclusion?

"Shit!" he cursed, stumbling out of his futon towards his closet.

Haruhi tugged off his oversized shirt while blindingly shoving his closet door open with a foot. He rummaged through the neatly folded stacks of dress shirts and sweaters with one hand as he removed his shorts with the other. After a moment of searching, Haruhi quickly tugged out his prize, only to pause in annoyance when he realized the article of clothing wasn't _quite _what he had intended to seize.

The thin and flimsy piece of cotton cloth was dyed a light pink, akin to soft cotton candy. Thin white lace decorated the top and bottom hem, slightly frayed at the edges but still managed maintained its structural integrity. It was a camisole, he noted, a _woman's_ camisole.

"Well," Haruhi frowned, "it's not like anyone is going to see me wearing it."

Haruhi quickly pulled on the pink monstrosity on along with a plain white dress shirt and a wrinkled purple sweater. Hopping into a pair of slacks and random mismatched socks, Haruhi rushed out into the hallway, pausing only to rush back to grab his keys, wallet, and school bag. It was on his second run out into the hallway had he nearly crashed into the wall, desperately avoiding his haggard father, no longer in Ranka mode.

"Haruhi," his father blinked, yawning as he reached beneath his wrinkled shirt to scratch his bare tummy, "what are you still doing here? You're going to miss the train to Bunkyō."

"I woke up late." Haruhi growled before retrieving the bento he had prepared last night from the refrigerator.

"Of course you did." Ryōji chuckled.

Ryōji leaned against the doorway, watching his frantic son tug on his worn tennis shoes before rushing out the door. The cross dresser grinned as Haruhi leapt from the second story floor and down to the flat pavement below, not at all worried for the boy's safety. It wasn't the first time his precious son had leaped from such heights, after all.

With a steaming mug of coffee in hand, Ryōji closed the door with the other. Wandering into the living room, Ryōji kneeled before the prayer cabinet sitting against the wall and gently pried it open. Unlit incense, a solid black memorial tablet and a framed photo of a beautiful woman, whose ebony locks were pulled back in a simple ponytail, sat within its doors.

"Good morning, Kotoko-chan," Ryōji smiled, "A new day has once again arrived, my lovely wife." He reached forward, tracing a finger against the glass case, following the curve of the woman's lips. "Our wonderful son is independent as always, so full of energy even at the most ungodly of hours of the day."

Ryōji closed his eyes and imagined his beautiful wife at his side once again. She would be laughing and smiling and so full of life. Even after her death, Ryōji felt as if she had never left them, far too concerned over the wellbeing of her precious boys, unable to depart to the next plane.

"Well," Ryōji lifted his mug, "here's to hoping for a bit of excitement in that boy's life," he cheered, pausing just a moment before adding, "and let us pray that our son finds a better sense of fashion, too. If only you could see into that boy's closet . . ."


End file.
